Ace in the Hole
by lovethemajor
Summary: A companion piece to "Bird of a Different Feather."
1. Chapter 1

She wanted to make sure everything was just right, because this December 23rd was both a beginning and an end.

Inhaling the scent of the Douglas fir in the living room, which was decorated in brand new reds and silvers and golds, she went around the table, laying forks to the left, knives to the right, equidistant from the Spode Christmas plates in between. She placed the crystal wine goblets at 1 o'clock, the smaller Scotch glasses at 2. She slid red linen napkins under the forks, making sure the fold was next to the plate, and pushed red tapers into the 3 inch crystal candle holders that served as a simple centerpiece. She smoothed down an upturned edge of the white lace tablecloth, checking to see that it was centered over the table. Satisfied after a final perusal, she headed back to the kitchen to toss the salad, and wait for his knock.

She wanted to make a statement with her first Christmas in the new place. Tired of the "poor, divorced Gillian" mantra that people often adopted behind her back, and sometimes in her presence – and that she, herself, had chanted more than once – she had needed an occasion to declare herself changed. Liberated. A butterfly of sorts emerging from a stifling, oppressive cocoon. She saw this holiday season as the perfect opportunity to do just that. As much as she hated Thanksgiving (well, except for the one that Cal gave her), Christmas was her comfort-food of holidays. No matter how unhappy she might be at her own past holiday "discoveries" (her dad's hidden bottles of vodka; Alec's hidden stash of crack), her inner delight at the trappings of Christmas never wavered. The glow of candles and outdoor lights; the lure of the holiday storefronts; carolers, get-togethers, eggnog, packages, perfect round balls; Christmas music. All served as a warm blanket and backdrop for Gillian's sense of the way things _should_ be. This Christmas marked the beginning of the way things were _going_ to be: the coming-out party for the new, hopefully improved, Gillian Foster. A chance to be as comfortable with herself as she was with the holiday. An opportunity to be open and confident with the people she loved.

Gillian checked on the prime rib that hissed and bubbled in the oven, then reached for the potato masher and the pot of boiled red potatoes. It hadn't been a particularly good year, if Gillian was honest with herself. The pain of her divorce still lurked beneath the surface of her thoughts, like a persistent headache not quite strong enough to be called a migraine, but irritating nonetheless. The whole episode with Jenkins and the copycat killer, though not recent, was a nightmare that visited her unannounced and unwelcome several times a month, and during the day manifested itself in a randomly aching shoulder. Terry and the question of loyalty – and whether hers matched up. Vegas. Gillian refused to even _think_ about that manifestation of Cal's Achilles heel.

But the worst parts of this year – moments that still sent her heart trip-hammering and her breath nowhere to be found – involved Cal being in a life-and-death situation in which the outcome was far from certain. The visual of Cal with Eric's gun pressed to his head, bleeding and exhausted, was permanently etched into the backs of Gillian's eyelids, and it came to her whenever she closed her eyes for too long. Similarly, the sounds of gunshots, both heard and imagined, invaded her waking and sleeping moments, and brought into view the bunker in Afghanistan, and Cal ducking the muted explosions that rocked both his shelter and Gillian's composure, threatening to destroy each. Now, in her suddenly stifling kitchen, Gillian felt her breath shortening and her heart rate quickening; gulping air, she brought her arm up and down in rapid succession, mashing furiously.

_Get a grip,_ she admonished herself firmly. _Tonight is supposed to banish all that. Or at least push it so far into subconsciouness that it can only be uncovered by hypnosis. _She added more milk to the submissive potatoes, and jumped a little at the welcome sound of a knock at the door.

Waiting somewhat impatiently, one hand jammed into its corresponding coat pocket, the other holding a small, wrapped box, Cal Lightman was beginning his own reinvention of sorts. After what he felt was a mostly crap year – save for Gillian's divorce, though he wouldn't tell her that – Cal was more than ready for the end of 2009 and the turn of a new calendar page. Due perhaps to the emotional stress of certain – _situations_ – he felt himself tiring sooner than usual, thought it harder to concentrate on matters at hand, found it nearly impossible at times to hide the emotions that threatened to erupt all over his face. He found it harder to _not have_ these emotions, period. The Cal Lightman of old – dispassionate, aggressive, impulsive, daring, fit and energetic – was dissolving before his eyes into a gauzy, ghost-like replica of himself. He felt _unsubstantial_. Oh sure, he still could _think_ his way through, and _act_ on nearly any given situation (guns to the head notwithstanding), but it took him a disturbingly fair sight longer to put those instances out of his head. To say "bollocks" and "fuck all" and be done with them. No, this stranger named Cal positively _dwelled_ on the "what ifs" and the "could have beens" until his eyes spun and his head ached, and all he wanted to do was grab Emily in a bone crushing hug, or Gillian in… well, he'd probably never get to act on _those_ feelings. As a result of the lingering turmoil, his sleep was sparser than usual, and the sleep he managed to get was riddled with anxiety. He awoke several times a week in a cold, shivery sweat, his heart racing, his breath ragged. Sleeping pills left him groggy and fuzzy-headed, and weren't too compatible with the amount of Scotch he was consuming. The idea that he was in some post-traumatic stress loop occurred to him more than once, but he'd be damned if he'd go to a shrink. Besides, the only shrink he'd feel comfortable with was Gillian, and no way in hell was he going to burden her with his problems. He'd dragged her down into his slop often enough. He fiercely clung onto what little pride he had left; it was all he had to get by on some days.

Watching her silhouette head his way through the front door curtain and glass, Cal was filled with a jolt of warmth that traveled throughout his body and make a mockery of his finest Scotch. He hadn't felt this at ease since Thanksgiving, and a smile, natural and uncensored, spread across his face. He straightened his shoulders, hid his hand with the box behind his back, and took a step up and into Gillian's welcoming embrace.

"Happy Christmas, luv."

"Merry Christmas, Cal."


	2. Chapter 2

As they dropped a kiss on each other's cheek and eased out of the embrace, Gillian immediately noticed that Cal looked bone tired. His eyes, when they met hers, were heavy-lidded and bloodshot, and they seemed to disappear into the dark circles that resided underneath. His face was wan, and although it contained a genuine smile, it lacked its usual animation. Gillian had suspected that he hadn't been sleeping well since returning from Afghanistan, but lack of alone-time with Cal, and the mask that he wore when they _did_ meet for pre-holiday business, both pre-empted her observations and disguised his fatigue. As usual, he had clearly wanted to fight his battles alone. But tonight, as she returned his smile and motioned for him to take off his coat, he seemed more relaxed; be it from fatigue or ease in her company, she didn't know. Banishing her worry to a mental back burner lest he summon his cloaking device, she vowed to give him as relaxing and comfortable an evening as he had given her nearly a month ago.

After hanging his coat in the hall closet, the other thing she noticed was the small box in Cal's left hand…

Cal grinned at the direction of Gillian's gaze and quickly shifted the box to his right hand, holding up his left.

"Uh uh, Foster. This is for _after_ dinner. Have to ask Santa if you've been naughty or nice. Better put it under the tree until he rings me, yeah?" He linked his left arm with Gillian's right, and she led him around the corner to where the Christmas tree glowed.

Cal's arm flew up to shield his eyes in mock horror. "Bloody hell, Gillian! You'll put out half the lights in Washington with that firetrap! Where d'ja get your power source? Three Mile Island?"

Gillian swatted Cal on the arm. "Oh stop. Christmas lights _should_ be bright, Cal. That's the whole point!"

"Oh, they're bright all right, luv. You tryin' to hold your own Festival of Lights?"

Gillian laughed as she watched Cal bend down and place the box next to two other boxes on the gold satiny tree skirt. Rising, he feigned innocence. "Those both for me, then?"

"No Cal. In fact, neither are for you. They're for Emily."

"Emily?!" Cal protested. "_I'm_ the one standing in your livin' room, aren't I? _I'm_ the one who brought _you_ a bleedin' present, though I'm thinkin' seriously about takin' it back. Shame, that - you would've liked your new swivel chair." Despite Cal's bluster, Gillian thought he looked secretly pleased that she'd remembered Emily.

"Cal, I seriously doubt whether the "Glee 1 and 2" soundtracks are your cup of tea, although I'd love to see you bust a move to "Don't Stop Believin.''' If you want, I can ask Emily to burn a copy for you."

Cal snorted and flopped down on the sofa, leaning back against the cushions. He squinted up at Gillian, and smiled. "Thanks for havin' me, luv. Good to be here."

Gillian reached down and squeezed his shoulder. "Go ahead and relax, Cal, while I make the gravy. Everything else is ready." She thought he might protest, but his response was half-hearted.

"You sure, luv? Don't want me tryin' my hand at the gravy? Flour 'n water, right?"

"I've got the gravy, Cal. You prepare your appetite."

Gillian went to the kitchen and took out the prime rib. Sniffing appreciatively, she started the pan drippings to boil, stirring in flour and water. She sliced the beef, placing the slices on a Christmas platter, and put the mashed potatoes in a matching serving dish. She retrieved the Parker House rolls from where they were warming in the oven, and along with the salad, carried them to the dining room table. Back to the kitchen for the beef, potatoes and salad dressing. One last trip for her wine and his lager. She glanced at the sofa where Cal was waiting.

He was sound asleep. Head back, mouth open, quiet, deep breaths. He looked both utterly exhausted and deeply relaxed, his features smoothed out in the alternate universe of oblivion. His hands rested loosely in his lap, and his legs were splayed in front of him, feet under the coffee table.

_Do I wake him or let him sleep?_ Sighing, Gillian tossed the options around, her worry rising to the surface again. _He needs the rest, but maybe if I can persuade him to stay in the spare room tonight and go to bed early, that would put a dent in what looks to be a serious sleep deficit. He probably needs the food, too._ Mind made up, Gillian walked over to the couch and eased herself down beside Cal. She reached over and lightly touched his forehead, smoothing his hair to the side. Resting her hand on his chest, she said his name quietly.

Cal stirred and opened his eyes, dully taking in the ceiling above him, and then looking over at the woman next to him. He shifted to a more upright position, scrubbing his hand over his face. "See, that bloomin' tree put _my_ lights out, too. It's a menace," he said, pointing sternly at the tree. He slapped his thighs and bounded to a standing position, reaching down to help her up as well. "Dinner ready, luv?"

Gillian once again removed the concern from her face, though not before Cal read it and frowned. "I hope that look means you're worried about the beef bein' overdone, Foster." Without waiting for an answer, he firmly took hold of her arm and steered her toward the dining room.

* * *

Gillian watched as Cal shoveled in mashed potatoes and gravy, followed closely by a bite of roll, and then a forkful of beef. He rounded it off with a swig of beer, looking up to see her smile of delight.

"What?"

Gillian grinned happily. "I'm just glad that the prime rib _wasn't_ overdone, Cal, and that you haven't lost your appetite. A cook likes to see her food enjoyed."

Cal huffed. "I'm just doin' you a favor, Gill, so you won't have so many bleedin' leftovers." He stabbed another piece of meat, and popped it in his mouth, illustrating his point.

The smile stayed in place. "You go ahead and think that, Cal. Are you going to want dessert?"

Cal stopped chewing, and he clutched his stomach in a parody of indigestion. "Oh no, no, you're not serious? You're not gonna make me eat that 'death by chocolate' crap, are ya? Ruin a perfectly good dinner, that would." Cal busied himself with swiping a last bite of roll through a small puddle of gravy, hoping to postpone the inevitable.

"Cal Lightman, you insult my chocolate, you insult me. For that, I should give you a _double_ helping!" Gillian rose from the table, carrying her plate to the kitchen. "Stay right there."

Gillian had learned, through Emily, that Cal had an aunt who had made homemade ginger snaps when he was young, and that Cal, in fact, had loved them. She'd scoured the recipe books for the one that sounded the most "aunt-like," and had made a batch last night, putting them in a covered bowl with a slice of bread on top to keep them soft. She brought these out now on a glass plate, and set them in front of Cal. "Of course, if you'd _rather_ have chocolate…" she said with a soft smile.

Cal stared at the plate of ginger snaps, then back up at Gillian. "Could you be any more wonderful, luv?" he asked quietly. He stood up and gently took hold of Gillian's elbow, pulling her to him. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his nose in perfume and cashmere, immersing his psyche in the solid comfort that came from Gillian Foster in his arms. He didn't release her, but instead, held on tighter, unable to convince his arms to unwrap themselves from this haven.

Gillian, blushing slightly at Cal's words, wrapped her arms around Cal's shoulders, burying her face in his neck in a near mirror image. She clung tight as her treacherous eyelids chose then to replay the scene of Cal with a gun to his head, and she wished she could Velcro her body to his. She settled for holding him as close as possible, and eventually her fingers found the back of his head, grasping and releasing his hair. Neither let go, and neither spoke, and the brown-eyed cookies looked on silently.

Cal was the first to disengage. With a soft grunt he pulled back, grasping her by the shoulders and studying her face. Gillian, though flushed, met his eyes with warm ones of her own and no signs of regret. He leaned his forehead against hers and whispered "Thank you, luv" before letting go of her shoulders and stepping back. He sat down at his place at the table, and picked up a ginger snap, turning it over in his fingers. "Did Emily tell you?"

"Yes," Gillian smiled. "Then I went looking for the oldest ginger snap recipe I could find."

"You callin' me old, luv?" He pretended to be insulted as he bit into his cookie.

Gillian leaned against the table. She hadn't realized that she was holding her breath, but now she let it out at the sight of Cal's goofy, blissful expression. He gestured for her to join him, and she sat down, watching him devour another cookie. She took one herself and chewed, letting the spicy, sugary tang spread over her taste buds. She looked up to see Cal smirking at her.

"_Much_ better than chocolate, eh luv?" Cal's eyes, though tired, danced with satisfaction.

"Cal, _nothing_ is better than chocolate. But these little guys try hard," she admitted, popping another one in her mouth.

The next few minutes were spent chewing companionably, with Cal telling Gillian about his dad's sister, an archeologist who was a "direct descendent of Indiana bleedin' Jones," and who kept him supplied with artifacts and ginger snaps. Eventually they both sat back, sighing and content.

Gillian reached across the table and touched Cal's arm. "What'll it be, Cal? A rematch in Scrabble? Or would you like to open gifts?" Her eyes met his and she grinned in anticipation of two highly agreeable options.

Cal cocked his head, considering. "Well, I wouldn't want to beat you so soon after eatin' that fantastic meal you cooked for me, luv. Might think I was bein' ungrateful." He stood up, gathering his plate and the half-empty platter of beef. "I guess we'd better do presents before my full stomach attacks my brain cells, and makes me nod off again." He flopped a hand toward the couch. "Go take a load off. I've got these."


	3. Chapter 3

Gillian hadn't exactly told the truth. While it was true that one of the packages under the tree had Emily's name on it, the other belonged to Cal. She just hadn't wanted him poking and prodding and trying to guess what was inside. Gillian may be the one most excited about opening presents, but Cal always tried to "read" them. And he had been right on more than one occasion.

As Cal was finishing clearing the table, Gillian turned off the living room light and took a glance at her watch. 6:20. The 5pm dinner had initially been set so that there would be enough time for Scrabble and perhaps a movie, but a weary Cal on her doorstep made her rethink their options. Truth was, despite the very real anticipation at opening Cal's gift, she, too, was feeling the effects of the big meal. Cracking a yawn and leaning back against the cushions, she thought that a short nap might do them both good.

Cal emerged from the dining room and flopped down on the couch. "Any treats for the busboy?" he asked, and was mildly surprised when Gillian indicated that he should lay down with his head in her lap.

She chuckled at his raised eyebrows. "I don't know about you, Cal, but I can hardly keep my eyes open. How 'bout a short nap before we open gifts?"

Cal studied Gillian for a moment before swinging his legs up on the couch and laying down on his left side. He sighed with pleasure at the comfort of his head pillowed on Gillian Foster's legs before asking, "Not tryin' to mother me, are ya, luv? Thought you couldn't wait 'till we opened presents?" He snuggled his head down on her soft wool slacks, cupping her knee with his hand and closing his eyes. He didn't seem too concerned with her answer.

"Oh don't worry, Cal, we _are_ going to open them soon. But I'm stuffed and sleepy and figured you probably were too. I've set my watch for thirty minutes, and we won't sleep a minute more." She ran her fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. Cal moaned softly and said, "Guess I need to clear your table more often, Foster."

Gillian smiled and laid her own head back against the cushions. Her fingers, sliding through Cal's hair, were soothing and relaxing. In just minutes, Cal's breathing had changed, and Gillian was starting to fade away too. The last thing she remembered thinking was that their roles had reversed since Thanksgiving…

After what seemed like seconds, Gillian's watch timer went off, startling both of them awake. Gillian stretched, while Cal rolled over and buried his face in Gillian's stomach. "'nother thirty, Gill, yeah?" he murmured, wrapping his left arm around her back.

Gillian wouldn't have minded "another thirty" as well, but she knew that it could stretch out even longer. At this rate, they wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. She rubbed Cal's shoulder, then pulled his arm out from behind her, eliciting a groan of protest. "Up you go, Cal" she said, resting a hand on his back as he reluctantly sat up. He placed a quick kiss on her cheek, then squinted at the tree.

"Well, what're we waitin' for? Me to get blinded by your tree?"

"Me to bring you your present." Gillian stood and walked over to the tree, picking up the slightly larger of the two gifts. She brought it back to Cal, carefully placing it in his lap.

Cal gave a smirk. "Knew you were lyin,' Foster. Didn't want to burst your bubble, did I?"

"Oh, is that so? Now who's lying, Cal Lightman?" She went back over to the tree and picked up her gift, bringing it back to the couch.

"Open yours first, Cal – no, don't shake it!" Gillian exclaimed as Cal listened to see if it rattled.

"Take all the fun out of it, you do. Is it going to explode when I open it?" Cal's fingers carefully eased the paper off and removed the lid. Nestled among the tissue was a smaller box. He took it out, then set the empty box on the floor. He opened his mouth to guess what was inside, but Gillian stopped him with a glare.

"Don't you dare, Cal."

Cal muttered. "Make a proper Scrooge, you would." He removed the green foil wrap, and inside was a gray box with the word "Phenom" written in black across the top.

"Are you tryin' to tell me I'm phenomenal, luv?" He asked cheekily, earning a swat on the arm from Gillian. He opened the box, and whistled appreciatively.

Inside lay a black Phenom SpecialOPS watch phone, state of the art, with all the bells and whistles. "Touch screen, built in microphone, video camera, micro SD slot and built in Bluetooth. The ultimate watch for those who like to live on the edge," Cal read from the enclosed brochure. "Who, me? Live on the edge?" He removed the watch from the box, admiring it, then took off his old watch and set it on the coffee table. He slipped the SpecialOPS on and pretended to talk into his wrist.

"Bond. James Bond."

Gillian chuckled. "I figured with all your government jobs and – situations - you needed a more dependable way to stay in touch with your team. It'll help us help you, and…" she paused before adding quietly, "we'll know that you're safe."

Cal reached out and pulled Gillian against him, leaning them back against the cushion. His left arm was wrapped tightly around her, and his right hand held her head against his chest, threading his fingers in her hair. She could hear his slightly elevated heart rate, and his palm was warm against her cheek.

"You're too good to me, luv," he said quietly, pressing his head against hers. "I don't deserve you, and that's a fact."

Gillian tilted her head back on Cal's shoulder, locking eyes with his. "No, Cal, you're wrong. You DO deserve this, and it's time you knew it. 2010 is going to be the year of the enlightened Cal Lightman." She ran a soft hand down his face, tracing a line from eyebrow to chin, before stopping at the base of his neck. She flattened her palm against his exposed skin, resettling her head on his shoulder.

At that moment, Cal thought he could probably stay this way forever. He pressed his head against the top of hers, wrapping both arms tightly around her. He closed his eyes and he could feel some of the stress from Afghanistan slowly start to dissipate. It felt as if Gillian was absorbing some of the anxiety and foreboding that he'd felt over the past few days – past few _months_, if truth be told – and the feeling made him nearly limp with gratitude. He let out a sigh that was more of a shudder, and she removed her hand from his chest and wrapped her arms tightly around him, holding him and letting him feel her support. He wasn't sure how long they stayed this way – the evening had long since lost its light - but eventually the twinkling of the Christmas lights pulled him back to reality. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, saying huskily, "Thank you, luv," and gently helped her sit up. They exchanged a smile, then Cal reached across Gillian and handed her his gift. "Your turn, darlin'. And no bleedin' rules come with this one, other than: rip paper, open box."

Gillian giggled and deftly removed the box from its candy cane wrapping. She saw the word "Tiffanys" on the top, and glanced over at Cal, a small "o" escaping her lips. She pulled open the top, and stared.

Inside, nestled on creamy silk, was a silver charm bracelet, spread the length of the box. Its charms sparkled in the light of the tree, and Gillian had to blink back tears. "Oh, Cal…"

With the tree-lit room helping to hide his unexpected blush, Cal quickly pulled Gillian back and looped an arm across her shoulders. "Emily helped me with it, though one or two o' those was my idea. Thought maybe a romance readin', chocolate-lovin' partner might fancy something as daft as a charm bracelet." His voice was gruff with embarrassment, and he rubbed her arm self-consciously with his thumb.

Gillian laughed with pure delight. "Cal, I love it! And the charms are _wonderful_!" She lifted the bracelet from the box, its charms glinting in the tree lights, and laid it across her lap. "Let's see… there's a "G," Gillian smiled, "and what looks like an ice cream cone" ("close as I could get to a slushy, luv"). Gillian laughed. "An "E" ("letters were Em's idea – outta my hands") and – oh Cal, the scales of justice!" ("wanted somethin' that stood for the truth," Cal said, "bleedin' hard, that was"). Gillian squeezed his hand, and then continued. "A book – yeah, Cal, I get it, a _romance_ novel" (Cal grinned) . "The letter C." ("Bloody Emily," Cal growled, motioning with his hand to keep going). "A light bulb" said a smiling Gillian. "For Lightman Group, right?" (Cal grunted his assent). "And - " Here Gillian stopped, and looked up at Cal, frowning slightly. "An ace of hearts?"

Cal didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was low and without pretense.

"Wanted this to stand for somethin' beside all the negative crap you associate with it, luv. You've been through some bloody awful times with me, because of cards." He paused, licking his lips. "What I want you to know - what I want this charm to mean - is that I'm always behind ya, Gil. Completely. Despite recent evidence to the contrary. Think of me as your ace in the hole – a backup when the chips are down, yeah? Because that's how I think of you." He glanced at Gillian, holding her eyes before returning his gaze to his knees. "I know we've always been there for each other, but I 'aven't told you lately, and you deserve to be told. I 'aven't exactly held up my end very well, 'ave I?" He shrugged a shoulder. "Thought maybe a charm would remind you that I mean it."

The charms on the bracelet swam together as the tears that had threatened earlier brimmed Gillian's eyelids and spilled over. She placed a hand on Cal's leg, holding it there as she tried to gather her thoughts. The only thought that had any clairity, that crowded out all the incoherent ones, was that she wanted to kiss Cal Lightman. Right now. Line be damned.

She turned sideways and took his chin in her hand, turning his head to face her. She let him see the tears and the unguarded emotion, the thankfulness and love that she couldn't have bothered hiding anyway. She placed her hands on either side of his face, her eyes never leaving his, and she smiled tremulously before slowly guiding his face to hers. Their lips met in the middle, warm and soft and new, and for a brief moment, the only sensation either felt was the Christmas waltz of their tongues in time to the increased beating of their hearts.

Cal was the first to separate. He cupped Gillian's face in his hands, tilting his head and studying her eyes for potential signs of regret. Finding enlarged pupils that undoubtedly matched his, he smiled and said, "Cor, luv. If I'd 'ave known that a bloody bracelet would get me a snog, I'd 'ave bought you one _years_ ago. What'll it take to get me a shag?" He grinned cheekily, wiping away the moisture on her cheeks before sliding his hands down her arms and capturing one of her hands in both of his.

"A lot more money than _you_ have right now, Cal Lightman. Better start saving." Gillian laughed self-consciously, then reached down and retrieved the charm bracelet from where it had fallen between the couch cushions. She held it out to Cal. "Would you do the honors?"

"My pleasure." He wrapped the bracelet around her left wrist, fumbling a bit with the clasp. "Damn small wrists you got there, Gil. Need to eat more chocolate."

Gillian laughed and admired her bracelet. "I've been trying to tell you that for years, Cal." Sobering, she took his hands in hers, searching for the words that had escaped her earlier.

"Cal, I have never doubted your support – your being there for me. Not even in that hellhole of Vegas. Your _judgment_, on occasion – well, several occasions – but never your loyalty. I always feel better when you're around - which is why I've hated this year so much. I hated you being in Afghanistan, and I hated Eric holding that gun on you. I – I have nightmares about those things. Sometimes I close my eyes and all I can see is that gun pressed up against your neck. I hear a car backfire, and all I can hear are those grenades outside your bunker. I think you have _always_ been my ace in the hole, Cal Lightman, and I don't know what I'd do if you took it away." She let go of his hands and placed one of hers on his chest, feeling the warmth from beneath his cotton shirt. He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him, tucking her head under his chin.

"Not goin' anywhere, luv. You'll have to chuck me out first." He placed a kiss in her hair, then one on her forehead, then tilted her head so he could plant a firm one on her mouth. He teased her lips open with his tongue, and they resumed their dance, only this time it was more bolero than waltz.

Gillian surfaced for air, and laughed at the idiotic grin spread across Cal's face. "Easy there, Ace. Don't play your cards all at once. And speaking of games" she asked innocently, "are you ready to lose again in Scrabble, Cal?"

Cal snorted & lifted both of them to their feet. "Not on your life, Foster. I will bloody well reduce you to a bleedin' pulp with my brilliance."

Two games of Scrabble – tied at one each – and a few glasses of Scotch later, found Cal with his head propped on his hand, eyes at half mast, and Gillian yawning. Gillian reached over and laid her hand on his arm. "Stay in the spare bedroom tonight, Cal? I really don't want you driving home."

Cal rubbed his face, then his eyes met hers gratefully before sliding down and away. "Was hopin' you'd ask that, luv. I've – you're not the only one's been 'avin' nightmares. Stupid, really, but there it is." A flash of self-contempt crossed Cal's face, and he turned his head away from her.

Gillian rubbed his arm. "Not stupid at all, Cal. I'd be surprised if you haven't. And I could tell that you hadn't been sleeping well the minute you came to the door." At Cal's half-hearted scowl, Gillian stood up and tugged on his arm.

"Come on, Cal. No nightmares tonight." Wrapping an arm around his waist, she stopped to turn the Christmas tree lights off, then steered him in the direction of the bedrooms. When they got to the spare bedroom, she paused briefly at the threshold, before leading him past it and down the hall.

At the door to her room, Cal asked with a sideways grin, "Should I prepare to be enlightened, luv?"

Gillian snorted. "Only if you've never heard me snore, Cal."

.


End file.
